


Don't You See The Erlking, Father?

by Cyberrat



Series: The Erlking [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Mind Control, Oral Sex, PWP, Skewed Time-Line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1275787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberrat/pseuds/Cyberrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Possessed!Stiles makes his father have fun with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You See The Erlking, Father?

**Author's Note:**

> I got a few ficlets that are... well. Let's just say, one or two of them I seriously cannot post, 'cause ya'll might think even worse from me lol So there.
> 
> You probably know from the title already that I'm a horrible human being, 'cause I utilized the very famous poem from J.W. Goethe for this trash.
> 
> Seriously, though, go check it out (even if the English translation is a little lame) 'cause it's awesome and I love it. And it fits. Just sayin'. (The Erlking by J.W. Goethe)
> 
> WARNINGS: This story contains incest. Also, it is very, very dub-conny. More like rape-y. Also, Stiles is underage. Like... Seriously.
> 
> THE TIME-LINE MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER, DON'T EVEN TRY TO UNDERSTAND IT.

John looked up from the dumb sports show he was watching when the front door slammed shut so loud he fancied he could hear the house rattle. He raised his eyebrows, slowly putting the bottle of coke down he had been about to sip from. It was his only day off and Stiles was supposed to still be in school and therefore he had elected to drink one of those otherwise ‘banned’ treats his son was so fond of depriving him off. (All for the cause of the greater good, of course.)

There was faint muttering from the direction of the now slammed door. It sounded dark and angry and so not like Stiles that he was just about to push himself off of his armchair when his boy stumped past the opened door to the living room, shoulders tight with anger and schoolbag slung haphazardly across his back.

“Stiles!” he called, watching as the boy froze mid-stride and turned his head, blinking owlishly at him. There was a big, red blotch on his left cheekbone, looking like it would soon darken. John frowned, narrowing his eyes a little and tilting his head towards him.

“What’s that?”

Stiles pressed his lips together and looked mulishly down. He was nothing like the bubbly, overactive boy that had left the house earlier that day and when he turned further around John could see his clothes were dirty and torn in places.

John stiffened, getting up immediately and rushing towards him.

“What happened?!” he demanded to know, gripping the thin shoulders and turning him this way and that, eyes roving over the kid’s body to assess the damage. His insides felt frozen, heart pounding in his throat and only slowly getting back to a normal rhythm when he realized there was no blood – merely scrapes and bruises.

“I got into a fight,” Stiles muttered, letting himself get manhandled with a sullen expression, just staring at his father’s chest. John frowned, hands sliding the strap of the backpack from one shoulder and setting the burden down next to him.

“That’s why you’re early? Why did you get into a fight?” he asked, steering his oddly subdued child into the living room. “And with whom?”

Stiles shrugged, dragging his feet a little, his shoulders drawn up to his ears.

“Just with a few boys,” he whispered reluctantly and let himself get pushed into the armchair John had been occupying just moments before.

“What boys?” he asked, crouching down in front of him, one hand placed on the boy’s knobbly knee, the other cradling the smooth, uninjured cheek, rubbing at a smudge of dirt he found there.

Stiles squirmed a little, life finally retreating into his form.

“Dad...” he murmured, turning his head just a little into the touch. “Don’t go all papa bear on me.”

John snorted, hand sliding down to cup the side of the boy’s neck, rubbing with his thumb absentmindedly along Stiles’ jaw.

“What happened to the other boys?”

“Dunno...” And again he pulled back into that strange shell, his fingers fiddling with the edges of his torn shirt, his eyes downcast and mouth set straight. John narrowed his eyes a little, dragging them down Stiles’ body and tugging on the torn shirt.

“That must have been quite the fight. What was so important? It’s not like you to throw punches, Stiles.” He kept his voice low, coaxing; he was seriously at a loss here. It was not uncommon for Stiles to get into trouble – but most of the time it was because of a smartass remark or his infamous sarcasm – not because he was bodily harmful to others.

The boy’s whole physiology didn’t seem adjusted to flat out brawling.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Stiles mumbled at last, hands twisting together in his lap. His lips were suddenly trembling and John, in alarm, grabbed the boy’s chin, tilting his head up and – flinched backwards as if he had been slapped, because for just one moment... for just a _second_... Stiles’ eyes had looked as if they’d been deep, endless voids. Just inky blackness – wet and churning.

He’d only seen it for a second, though, before Stiles blinked and everything was back to normal and...

“Daddy? Everything alright?” the boy asked and he sounded so small – so soft... John had to blink profusely and shake off the paralysation that had overtaken his body briefly.

“I-I... yes. Yes, of course...”

“Are you... angry?” Stiles sounded plaintive and heartbroken. John closed his eyes, rubbing one hand across his face and breathing deeply.

“No... no of course not. Are you... does anything hurt?” He felt strange while he asked it; the picture of the two black orbs instead of Stiles’ large, friendly eyes had burned itself deep into his mind, leaving behind an ice shard of uncertainty that slowly seemed to melt and drip down his body – making it numb and cold.

“I don’t know... A little perhaps... could you...” Stiles was talking slow, sounding a little trance like. His gaze never left John’s eyes and his hands – so delicate for a boy – were clammy when they cupped his father’s face left and right. “Will you kiss it better?”

A soft prickling in John’s belly made the ice recede for just a moment. It was a strange, intoxicating feeling – rushing straight to his head and making Stiles’ request seem perfectly sound as he whispered, “Of course...” before stretching up in order to press a slow, lingering kiss to the smooth forehead.

“No... no, no, no,” Stiles growled, his small hands gripping John’s head once more, guiding him towards the bruise on his cheek. “Here. It hurts here.”

John took a deep breath, smelling dirt and salt und _Stiles_ underneath. He thought, ‘This is strange... why am I doing this?’ even while his warm lips pressed themselves to clammy, bruised skin. Stiles made a soft noise in the back of his throat; it sounded pleased and... and something else. Something a child should not sound like when their father kissed them simply on the cheek.

“So much better now, daddy,” Stiles cooed, something off in his voice, “but there is still so much pain... will you make it better?”

John closed his eyes, shaking his head in the grip of his son and trying to pull back but his strength seemed to have been leeched from him.

“I don’t know... something is... something’s wrong, Stiles. I don’t feel so well...” He wanted to extract himself and stand up but Stiles’ voice slithered into his consciousness, making his limbs heavy and his mind cloudy.

“No... no everything is just alright. You need to take my pain, daddy. That’s what good daddies do, don’t they? They’re supposed to take their boy’s pain...”

He was pulled closer, between Stiles’ suddenly spread legs and up to the boy’s belly. One hand left his face in order to tug up the dirty shirt, exposing a little abrasion at the smooth skin of his waist.

“Make it better, daddy...” Stiles suggested with an insidious drawl – ordering him so sweetly. A voice in the back of John’s head kept telling him that something was wrong – that he shouldn’t lean forward and reverently press an open mouthed kiss to his kid’s body... but somehow it was hard to remember _why_ it was wrong.

“It still hurts, daddy,” Stiles whimpered and John pressed another kiss against the red tissue, flickering his tongue out and over it until he could hear the hitch in Stiles’ breath.

“Still hurts...”

“Where?” he rasped, voice rough and deep with... with what? Lust?

The one hand on his head gently guided him down... down and down, shoving him irresistibly while the other hand opened Stiles’ trousers with an efficiency that bordered on professional.

Never had John seen his uncoordinated, stumbling, sweet son like a hard-core... pimp.

“Here, daddy,” Stiles purred, no longer sounding meek but very assured of himself – very sure even though he was pulling his young, sleek cock out inches in front of his father’s face. The head was flushed red, the shaft twitching in the grip of those long, thin fingers.

While John stared dumbly, a little dribble of pre-cum oozed out of the slit and curved down the warm flesh.

“Kiss it better?” Stiles purred. John shook his head slowly, the coldness in his body making it impossible to move any faster – or to pull away from the touch of the small hand gently cupping his jaw and pulling him irresistibly closer.

He closed his eyes briefly when the wet head touched his lips. A sharp intake of breath flooded his senses with salty musk and dimly he thought, ‘That’s my son’s cock I’m smelling. That’s my son rubbing his leaking cock on my lips...’

It should repel him. It didn’t.

Opening his eyes and glancing up towards Stiles’ face, he flinched bodily as he was met with the inky black stare of the emotionless voids of moments before. Stiles’ face was greedy, his pink little tongue flickering out to wet those amazing lips.

“I hurt so much, daddy... make it better...” he whispered in a lisp that made every little hair stand up on the Sheriff’s body in its eroticism.

“I...” he ground out but could not continue further because the creature above him – it could not be his son; it simply couldn’t – had utilized his opened mouth to slide that young, perfect cock between his lips. Stiles wriggled his slim hips forwards eagerly, shoving more and more of the twitching length into the moist, hot mouth.

John was frozen in place – not only because of the shard of ice in his head, but because he genuinely had no clue what to do now. Where the hell this all had gone so completely wrong.

“Uhhh... so good... You are the best daddy,” Stiles purred, gently thrusting, fingers carding through his father’s short hair and stroking his cheeks. His eyes were like... like nothing John had ever seen. They were locked onto his gaze, refusing to let him go and seemingly sucking every single drop of will out of him – making him just kneel there and take the cock fucking his mouth relentlessly.

“Remember... don’t bite. You wouldn’t want to hurt your son, would you?”

John groaned in mortification, the sound sliding along the length and making it jump and spurt pre-cum down the back of his throat. It tasted salty on his tongue and the Sheriff wondered whether he would ever be able to forget the taste. (Whether he wanted to forget it.)

Stiles was whining and mewling above him, hips stuttering and fucking his face with relentless force. Filthy wet noises filled the room – John thought he sounded like a cheap whore as the cock rammed down his throat and made him gag and swallow reflexively around the swollen head.

When Stiles came, it was sudden. There were no signs to indicate it other than the little noises that became more and more desperate. He hadn’t been moving longer than a few minutes before he suddenly stopped, sounding almost angry as spurts of come striped the inside of the Sheriff’s mouth.

He wanted to open it, let the cum slide out – but the same force keeping him kneeling at his son’s feet had him swallowing the boy’s essence greedily before his lips could have let go of their firm hold around the twitching shaft.

John was still holding Stiles’ spent cock in his mouth when the boy finally regained his breath long enough to growl an annoyed sounding, “Fucking teenagers and their non-existent stamina. Fuck.”

Fingers carded through his hair and caused him to look up. His eyes felt swollen and too moist for a man of his position and age. He wanted to turn away, get to his feet – do _something_ but he was kept down, his tongue lovingly cradling the softening dick.

“We’ll just have to do that again, hm? Over... and over...” The creature was purring, black eyes staring at John and lips curving into a sinuous smile.

John felt numb.

**Author's Note:**

> Still here? Liked it? Why don't you leave a little something on your way out :)
> 
> You can also join [ me ](http://cyberratting.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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